The Inner, Cynical Musings of Alexandra Philips
by musicprincess1990
Summary: When Alexandra's parents die, she's forced to move to England with her cranky Muggle grandmother. What she doesn't realize is that this may be the best thing that's ever happened to her. Rating for language. Please read and review!
1. A New 'Home'

A/N: I know, I know. I've got other stories to finish. So sue me. I can't help it when inspiration hits! I get an idea, I gots to write it down, dammit! Hahaha... **coughs** Soooo, without further ado, here's my newest story! Hope you like it!

Disclaimer: I actually own something! No, it's not Harry Potter. Don't I wish. But I _do_ own the characters Lexi Philips, Bridger Thaxton, and Diana Ramsgate. Also, the Eastridge Academy of Magic is entirely my own creation. As far as I know. O_o

* * *

><p><span>Chapter 1: A New "Home"<span>

Once upon a time...

God, what a lie those four little words are. They hold so much promise, so much potential. Potential for _heartbreak_, I say. The more you look for "once upon a time," and "happily ever after," the farther it's pulled away from your grasp, and the worse your life gets. Believe me, I know from experience.

My name is Alexandra Philips, Lexi for short. I'm a proud, American witch. Yes, that's right. _Witch_. I can do magic. Go ahead. Be intimidated.

For the past seven years, I have attended Eastridge Academy of Magic, located in Queens, New York. On the outside, it looks like some rundown, abandoned Muggle elementary school, with ivy climbing up the walls, broken slides and swings in the playground, and weeds instead of grass for a lawn. Most Muggles just pass by, without even a second glance. The select few who try to get a closer look—mostly stupid teenagers who just want a place to hide their hooch and pot—meet with a protective charm, which makes them forget why they're there, and inspires a desire to leave, _quickly_, and never come back. It's pretty effective.

Inside, however, the grandeur of the school could surpass Harvard, Yale, Princeton, and all those other rich Muggle colleges. The school was founded in the 1700's, on the cusp of the Revolutionary War. Back then, I'm told, it looked like a big pile of rocks and rubble. But as the city grew, and grew, and _grew_, certain "constructional" changes were made. Miraculously, over the last more than two hundred years, the school has never been discovered.

Eastridge was a sort of haven for me; my favorite place in the world. Sure, home was nice, and I loved my parents, but I've always loved school, and have always excelled in academics. The addition of magical skills in my life was a surprise, to say the least (my parents were Muggles), but a welcome one, nonetheless.

You may have noticed the sudden switch to past tense in my thoughts. Yes, that was intentional. Because now, life isn't so great. It was the beginning of last summer when things went downhill—_fast_.

For the last few months of term, during my seventh and penultimate year of school, I began seeing a wizard in the year ahead of me. Bridger Thaxton. He was a babe, to put it mildly. Quidditch captain, good grades (though mine were better, not to brag or anything), and Student Body President. He was a fantastic guy... on the outside.

It didn't take long for me to realize that my "boyfriend" was kind of a douche. He'd be sweet and caring on the weekends, but during school, I became his trophy, just an ornament to show off to his pals. But, being the silly, naïve little girl that I was, I went along with it, thinking that maybe, just maybe, he'd really fall in love with me, and that love would change him forever.

On the night of June 11th, a massive party was held for the graduating class, though it was open to everyone fifteen and above. I attended with my best girlfriend, Diana Ramsgate. Somewhere in the course of the party, I lost track of Diana. Since I had no other very close friends, just casual acquaintances, I set off in search of either her or Bridger. I found them both... locked in a closet... sans clothing.

Needless to say, we stopped being friends after that.

It only got worse, though.

At the end of July, I spent a day in Manhattan, drinking coffee, eating hot dogs and pizza, and just being away. It was around seven at night when I got a call from some strange man, who turned out to be my parents' lawyer.

"Alexandra," he said, "I've got some bad news. It's your parents. They... they were in an accident this afternoon..."

And just like that, my entire life turned upside-down.

Greg and Martha Philips were good people. Dad was an accountant, Mom worked part time at a little grocery store in Brooklyn. They didn't do anything particularly earth-shattering, but they had good lives, and I loved them very much. But after I'd found out about Diana and Bridger, I'd distanced myself from them, from _everyone_, really. The day they died, they said they were going to Staten Island to visit my aunt and uncle. They asked me to come with, but I said no; I just wanted to be alone. If only I'd known then...

They died on their way back home, when their idiot taxi driver took a wrong turn, and crashed headlong into a semi. He, too, was killed.

I cried for three days straight. Then, by the time the funeral came around, I'd cried myself dry. I stood silently, staring blankly at the two closed caskets, while a pastor droned on and on about God and dust and salvation. I barely heard his words. Then, the caskets were interred, and as I sprinkled a handful of dirt over what remained of my parents, I cried again.

Strangely, there was one person who seemed completely unemotional: my grandma, on my mother's side. Eve Chamberlain. English, tough as nails, and _old_. I'd only met her twice before that day. And she barely even acknowledged me at the funeral. Part of me wanted to be furious; didn't she feel anything? She'd lost her daughter! But it wouldn't be worth it to get that much more emotional about this whole thing.

For the next week, I was showered with bouquets of white roses, casseroles, and condolences from neighbors and friends. Then, Mom and Dad's lawyer called me again, wanting to meet with me, and my aunt Carol (Dad's sister), and also Gran.

"As Ms. Philips is still a minor, there are some custody issues to go over," he said to all of us. He lifted a blue piece of paper, which I knew right away was my parents' will. He read aloud, "'In the event of our untimely death, if Alexandra is still under eighteen, we grant sole guardianship to," he paused briefly, glancing at me, then went on, "her grandmother, Eve Chamberlain."

I stared at him. "_What?_"

"Lexi," Carol scolded in a whisper.

"But... why?" I asked, ignoring her. "I barely know her."

"I'm right here, Alexandra," Gran drawled in her prim, British accent, then looked at the lawyer. "Will that be all?"

"Not quite," he said, shuffling through his briefcase for a moment. "Mrs. Philips wrote a letter to both of you." He handed each of us an envelope. I tore mine open tossed the envelope aside, while Gran slowly and daintily opened hers. Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I turned to my letter, anxious to see what my mother had said.

_My dear Lexi,_

_If you're reading this, then you know that your father and I are gone. I just want you to know that we are so proud of you. We love you very much, and we feel blessed to have you as a daughter. You have a remarkable gift, Lexi, as well you know. If, right now, your magical education is still unfinished, I hope that you will continue it. I've written a letter to Gran as well, which you probably know already. It will be up to her to decide whether you stay here to finish school, or go to Hogwarts in England. I'm told it's a fine school. That's where that famous wizard from the nineties went, you know. Whatever Gran chooses, I hope you will accept it. I know how much you like making decisions for yourself. And please, go easy on her. She has a rough exterior, I know, but deep down, she really is a wonderful woman. Just give her a chance. I love you, baby girl. I hope you have every happiness in your life._

_Love always,_

_Mom (and Dad)_

By the end of the letter, tears were streaming down my face. Carol's arm was over my shoulders, hugging me tightly, though she didn't know exactly _why_ I was crying. I appreciated the gesture, all the same, and leaned against her for comfort.

Gran's face was stony as she read, but once or twice, I thought I saw a flicker of some emotion in her eyes, and her face seemed a bit white. After a while, she set the letter carefully in her lap. "I'll make the arrangements to go to London," she said to the lawyer, more than me.

_Dammit_.

"Very well," he said. "I'll need you to sign some paperwork before you go. Mrs. van Tassel," he addressed Carol, "if you'll escort Ms. Philips to her house..."

She nodded. "Come on, Lexi."

Wordlessly, I followed my aunt out of the office building, waiting until we were in the streets before I unleashed my fury.

"What the _hell?_"

"Lexi," she scolded, "watch your language."

"Why would they do this?" I cried, more tears surfacing. "Why would they stick me with _her?_ Why couldn't they give _you_ guardianship? I actually _know_ you!"

She sighed. "Sweetie, I know. I'm as surprised as you are. But you just have to trust that your parents knew what they were doing. And you have to trust that everything will be all right."

"No," I shook my head, "it won't. My parents are _dead_. Nothing is all right."

* * *

><p>"Don't slouch, Alexandra. It's not ladylike."<p>

I groan and shift in my seat so that I'm sitting upright. I'm on a plane with Gran right now, flying first class to London. I always knew Gran had money, but never really stopped to think about what that entailed until now. First class is great, I won't lie to you. But see, I always thought that the point of flying first class was so that you could relax and enjoy the flight. The only way I could be enjoying myself any _less_, would be for me to be throwing up in one of the little paper bags in the seat compartment in front of me.

And believe me, that's a possibility.

"How close are we to London?" I ask.

Gran glanced out the window. "We've got a ways, yet. We're still over the ocean."

I groan again.

"Stop making that noise, Alexandra. My God, you sound like a dying cow."

It's gonna be a _long_ flight.

* * *

><p>Three hours later, we land in Heathrow, where a car picks us up and drives us to Gran's mansion—yes, <em>mansion<em>—in Sussex. The house looks more like a castle, with stone walls, turrets, gargoyles, and stained glass windows.

"It was built as a manor house in the late sixteen-hundreds," Gran explains. "Lord Peter Fitzwilliam Chamberlain was a highly respectable man in the Renaissance. He dined several times with the Queen, and part of the Royal Guard was present at his funeral. Yes, a very respectable man indeed."

I stop listening around "Fitzwilliam," bored senseless. "Where's my room?" I ask.

Gran bristles, obviously offended that I didn't even acknowledge her story, but she steps toward the house. "You can choose," she says.

She gives me three options. The first is a large room on the main floor. The walls are draped with dark gold curtains, and the bed looks about the same size as my room back in Queens. The whole back wall is entirely made of glass, which some might like, but all I can seem to think of is, _zero privacy_. That's a no.

The second is more agreeable. Though the room is about the same size, the bed is much smaller, and there is just one window. Unfortunately, that one window is too small to provide any real light. Another no.

By now, Gran seems irritable. "I genuinely hope you like this one," she says, "for I haven't prepared any other bedrooms. If you don't, then I'll see what I can do to make it more pleasant for you." Her promise seems a little forced and insincere, like she really couldn't give a damn whether I'm pleased or not.

Luckily for her (and me), the last room is perfect. It's circular, being in one of the many turrets, with a high, vaulted ceiling, just enough windows, plenty of space, and a reasonably sized bed. It's a little stuffy, but I figure a good cooling charm will help. I nod once. "This works."

Gran looks blatantly relieved. "Very good," she says. "I'll send your maidservant up to see to your needs."

And just like that, she sweeps from the room. _Maidservant__?_ This tells me two things: one, Gran is just as archaic and old-fashioned as the mansion, and two, she has no interest in spending any more time with me than is necessary.

Fine by me.

A few minutes later, a girl just a little older than myself comes in. She's wearing a maid's outfit, her curly black hair pulled back into a loose bun. Her skin is eerily pale, and her bangs fall into her ice-blue eyes. She's pretty, but she obviously doesn't have makeup on. "'Ello, miss," she greets in a heavy Cockney accent that I struggle to understand. "I'm Lacey Foote, your maid. I'll be here to help you with whatever you need, and I make the beds and do the laundry."

"Um... okay?" I say uncertainly.

She shifts uncomfortably. "So... what do you need?"

"Privacy," I say bluntly.

"Oh," she says, seeming disheartened. "Right. I'll just... leave you to it."

I instantly feel terrible. "Wait," I say, and she looks at me. Biting my lip, I take a breath. "I could use some help unpacking."

A dazzling smile engulfs her face, revealing a row of straight, if slightly yellowed teeth. She helps me find the best places to put things, and hangs up my clothes in the wardrobe. By the time we're done, the heat has become unbearable. I pull my long, blonde hair into a messy ponytail at the back of my head.

"You've got such pretty hair," she compliments.

I smile shyly. "Thanks. I get it from my... from my mother," I choke out.

Her expression turns sympathetic. "I heard about your parents," she says. "I'm very sorry, miss."

"Thanks," I say again.

There is a knock on the door, and I call for them to come in. A tall, skinny bean pole of a man comes in, wearing a penguin suit and white gloves. His thinning hair is greasy, and his nose is long and bent. The butler, I deduce.

"Mrs. Chamberlain would like me to inform you that dinner will be served in the dining room, in half an hour," he drones.

"Thank you," I say awkwardly, and he gives a little bow and leaves. I turn to Lacey, one eyebrow going up. "So, um... where's the dining room?"

She giggles. "I'll show you."

The dining room is just as grand and foreboding as the rest of the house, with stone walls and floors and a gigantic chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Gran sits at one end of a long table, and gestures for me to sit at the other. I do so, both confused and grateful for the distance between us. The greasy butler comes in then, carrying a tray, and sets a plate in front of Gran, before crossing the room and doing the same for me. It's a salad. Ugh. So we're doing things the proper way; in courses. Five in all. Salad, soup, fish, main course, and dessert. This is going to take _forever_. We spend the next two hours (not kidding) eating, hardly saying a word.

"So, Alexandra," Gran breaks the silence as Franz (the butler) sets the main course in front of us. I think it's beef... it _looks_ like beef... I cautiously take a bite. Yep, it's beef. Phew. "I have a matter to discuss with you."

I look up at Gran, surprised. _Now?_ I want to say. _You wants to discuss things now? Why not two hours ago, when I came down?_ But what I say is, "Yes, Gran?"

She sets her silverware down and puts her hand in her lap, her back straight as a board. Man, that must hurt. "In her letter, your mother informed me of your... situation."

I frown. "My situation?"

"Your... educational needs." Ah. She's talking about my magical abilities. "She requested that you attend this... er... Pig Farts."

"Hogwarts," I correct her.

"Yes, Hogwarts. Now, she apparently made arrangements very early on that, should she and your father be taken from this life, as they were, a letter should be sent to the Headmistress there, informing them that you might choose to attend school there. You should be receiving a letter from them, soon, detailing the supplies you will need to purchase. I have set up an account with my bank in your name. You will have to exchange it for the proper form of currency, but you should have more than enough to purchase the necessary items."

Her excessively proper English is starting to give me a headache, but I try to ignore it. She produces a piece of paper, takes out her glasses, and paraphrases what is written. "You're to go to a place called Diagon Alley as soon as you receive the letter, which is where you'll get your money and supplies, then you take a train from King's Cross Station to the school."

"Wait," I interrupt, and she looks at me. "It's... it's a boarding school?"

"Yes."

No way. This is not happening. Nuh-uh.

"I'm full," I announce, slamming my knife and fork onto the table and standing up unceremoniously.

"Alexandra, you sit down right now," Gran says sternly.

"I don't want to go," I persist.

"It's what your mother wished," she tells me. "Are you going to defy her?"

She knew just where to prick me. "Fine," I mutter.

"Good," she nods, and hands me a card and a scrap of paper. "Here's your account number and a credit card. On the other side of the paper is the address to a place called The Leaky Cauldron, which grants entrance to this Diagon Alley. You're to ask for a Neville Longbottom when you get there. He will help you."

"Fine," I say again.

"Fine." She stands, and turns to Franz. "Have Stefano wrap our desserts and save them in the refrigerator. Miss Alexandra and I will retire early."

"Yes, ma'am," he bows.

I don't wait for Gran's approval to leave the room. I race up the multiple flights of stairs and slam my door behind me. Lacey is somewhere else now, which is for the best. The moment I ascertain that I'm alone, I slide to the floor and hug my knees against my stomach, sobbing uncontrollably for a long time.

They wanted this. My parents wanted this for me. They wanted me to be cooped up in this miserable old mansion with that miserable old bat as my guardian. Why? How could they do this to me?

A soft hooting catches my attention, and I look up to see a large, tawny owl swoop in through the open window. It lands just in front of me, and I take the envelope from its beak. It waits patiently for a tip, but I shake my head. "I'm sorry, I don't have anything to give you."

With a quiet, indignant screech, it takes off into the night. I turn my attention to the envelope in my hand. I read the elegantly written words on one side:

_Ms. Alexandra Philips_

_Attic Bedroom_

_Chamberlain Manor_

_Sussex, England_

I turn it over, and look closely at the seal. It's an emblem I recognize from my textbooks. The Hogwarts Crest. I rip it open, and read:

_***Dear Ms. Philips**_

_**We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.**_

_**Term begins on September 1.***__ Due to the fact that you will be starting late, we have arranged for you to be escorted to the school prior to the start of term, where you will be sorted privately. You will meet Professor Neville Longbottom at the Leaky Cauldron, at precisely 10:00 am. He will assist you in procuring your supplies, and will be the one to escort you to Hogwarts._

_Please accept our deepest apologies and sympathies for your loss._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Headmistress_

I gaze, stunned, at the words in front of me. Sorted? I have to be _sorted_? I've read a little bit about Hogwarts, and I know there are four houses—Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin—but I don't remember reading anything about having to be _sorted_ into them. I thought you just... picked one.

It's becoming increasingly clear to me that things in England are going to be _very_ different. I feel like Dorothy in Oz, only _this_ new world isn't colorful or bright or happy in any way.

With a sigh, I lean back against the door, my head thudding against it. My life officially sucks.

* * *

><p>AN: Very long and angsty first chapter. I was trying to capture all the emotions of a surly, heartbroken teenager who has just lost her parents. Since I am not surly, not heartbroken, and both my parents are alive and well, I really have no frame of reference, other than the many books and movies with characters in this situation. I hope I'm at least doing moderately well. Next chapter will be more lighthearted! Review, please!

***Bolded text between stars taken directly from **_**Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone**_**, and therefore belongs to J.K. Rowling, not me.***


	2. Introductions and Insufferable Boys

Chapter 2: Introductions and Insufferable Boys

Not surprisingly, I don't see Gran much over the next few weeks. My only company really is Lacey, who has become my first friend since my parents' death, and Franz, who is a lot nicer and more laid back than he looks. There's also Stefano, the cook, Laurence, the gardener, and Mrs. Quincy, the housekeeper. It's like a damn Dickens novel. But they're all very nice, welcoming people, and they've made this transition a lot easier to bear. Which is a hell of a lot more than I can say about the owner of the house, my own grandmother. Go figure.

At long last, August 31st arrives, and I go to The Leaky Cauldron (alone, because I still haven't spoken to Gran). I get there around noon, a few minutes early. My first impression of the place is, _yuck_. It's dark and dank, there's a faint aroma of liquor and dirty socks, and the stone floors and walls seem caked with grime.

Charming.

"'Ello, lass," a short, squat, bearded man greets me. He looks almost as grimy as the walls. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm here to meet someone," I say cautiously.

His eyebrow raises. "American, eh?" I can hear the instant disrespect in his voice, and I feel my temper start to boil. "What's a Yank like you doin' 'ere?"

"She's going to Hogwarts," a voice behind me says. I whirl around to see a tall, gangly man standing a few feet away. He looks like an over-grown teenager. The only indication that he's as old as he probably is, is the salt and pepper hair. No wrinkles, no facial hair, and a bit of a baby face. Still looking at the bearded man, he says, "You should learn to show more respect, Ian."

The short man sneers, obviously displeased. "My apologies, Longbottom."

He nods, then turns to me. A kind smile stretches across his face as he extends a hand to me. "Nice to meet you, Ms. Philips. I'm Professor Longbottom."

"Lexi," I correct automatically. I hate being called Ms. Philips.

Professor Longbottom laughs. "All right, I'll call you Lexi for now, but in class and around the school, I'll have to call you Ms. Philips." _Ugh_. "Now, what do you say we get your things?"

He takes me to Gringotts first, where I exchange Muggle pounds for knuts, sickles, and galleons. Then, he directs me to the appropriate shops for robes, books, quills and ink, and even an owl. I'm instantly smitten with a handsome barn owl, with big blue eyes and cream-colored feathers. I openly stare, and the owl stares back.

"She's a beauty, eh?"

I look at the shopkeeper, a tall, scrawny man, well into his sixties probably, with a twinkle in his eye. I smile and nod enthusiastically. "Definitely." I look back at the owl and lift a hand to stroke her feathers. She makes a little hooting noise and leans into my touch, and then gives my index finger a little nip. It doesn't hurt, so I guess that it's some sort of affectionate gesture. My smile widens.

"She's taken a shine to you," the owner says, confirming my suspicion.

"I'll take her."

I pay the man for the owl and a nice, big cage, then Professor Longbottom leads me back to the Leaky Cauldron. "She's a lovely owl," he says. "What's her name?"

After a moment of consideration, I say, "Athena."

He smiles. "A wonderful name."

"Thank you, Professor." It feels weird to say Professor—all the teachers at Eastridge went by Mr. or Mrs. It's just something I'll have to get used to, I guess.

"Well, I think that's everything," he says, looking over my supplies. "Now, we have a portkey ready in the Leaky Cauldron. It'll take us to Professor McGonagall's office, and you'll be sorted." I felt the color drain from my face. He notices, and laughs. "It's not that frightening, I promise."

"What exactly do you do?" I ask cautiously.

He just smiles. "You'll see."

I hate it when people say that.

We take the aforementioned portkey, and are transported into a large, stone-walled room, with high archways and multiple levels. At a large desk sits the oldest woman I have ever seen. Seriously. And I thought Gran was wrinkly. She looks up, and the faintest of smiles causes a few _more _wrinkles to appear. "Ah, Ms. Philips." Again, I feel that reflex to correct her, but I feel slightly intimidated, knowing this is probably the headmistress. She stands up. "I am Professor McGonagall, the Headmistress." I knew it. "Please, sit down," she says, gesturing to some chairs in front of her desk.

"Go on," Professor Longbottom whispers when I hesitate. Slowly, I walk to one of the chairs and gingerly sit down.

She sits down as well. "First," the headmistress begins, "I would like to express my condolences for your loss. I know how difficult it is to lose someone you care for very much." Despite her outward appearance—the thin, oft-pursed lips, the wrinkles, and the silly robes—she exudes an air of not just authority, but also wisdom, and great love for her students. I have a feeling she's been here for a very long time, probably even during the Battle of Hogwarts. I don't know all that much about the Battle; just that Harry Potter won, and a lot of innocent people died. The Battle's supposed to be covered in the last year at Eastridge, and obviously, I won't be there for that.

"Thank you," I say quietly.

Nodding, she stands and walks over to one of the bookshelves. Stretching to reach, she plucks an old, patched wizard's hat from the shelf. It looks absolutely filthy. I'm about to ask what she's going to do with it, when the thing starts to _sing_. It goes on and on about the four houses, and the merits within each. I staring at it, and at Professor McGonagall, and can't help but think, _What the fucking hell is this?_

Finally, the hat stops, and the professor says, "This is the Sorting Hat."

"Yeah, I got that," I mutter.

Her lips thin in obvious disapproval, but she doesn't say anything. She merely puts the hat on my head. Again, I'm about to protest, but then I hear a _voice_ in my _head_.

_Mm, you're quite the little spitfire, aren't you? A great deal of bravery, yes. No doubt you'd do well in Gryffindor. But there's also a bit of cunning in there. Slytherin? But no, you're far too loyal to your friends and loved ones to go there. Ravenclaw might suit you well, but I don't sense the love for academics that most often becomes a Ravenclaw. Well, then, there's only one choice._

"GRYFFINDOR!" the hat shouts, nearly bursting my eardrums in the process. I cringe at the sound, and then again when Professor McGonagall removes the hat. I'm more than a little shocked to see a full-fledged smile on her face. _Whoa._

"Professor Longbottom," she says, "please escort Ms. Philips to Gryffindor tower. Her belongings and robes will be transported to her dormitory in the morning. And Ms. Philips," she adds as an afterthought, "welcome to Hogwarts."

* * *

><p>After a fitful night's sleep, I wake up with the sun. Today is the first of September, the first day of term, and the day that I'll meet my fellow students.<p>

Happy-happy, joy-joy.

As promised, my bags are sitting beside my bed, Athena's cage on the bedside table, with Athena hooting happily inside it. I smile and sit up, reaching a finger through the small bars. She gives my finger a little nip, and nuzzles against it. I give her a treat, just for being so pretty. What? She's my first real friend. Don't judge me.

My attention is diverted when I see something draped across the chair near my bed.

Clothes.

_Ugly_ clothes.

A black, pleated skirt, a white, oxford shirt, a wool vest, a matching sweater, a tie, and a long, black robe. Oh, and some black ballet flats. The sweater and vest bear red and gold trim at the stupidly high V-neck, and the tie is also red and gold.

Ew.

Of all the houses, I had to be put in the one with the ugly colors.

I hate Hogwarts.

Curious, but also apprehensive, I don the uniform, and look in the mirror. They look even worse on. The skirt goes past the knees, making it appear as if I have _no _legs whatsoever. The shoes are too small, and the shirt, vest, and sweater are way too big. I guess the robe is okay, as far as robes go. It's lightweight, and made out of a decent material, but I mean, _come on_. It's a _robe_. I might as well major in being a landlady or a missionary, if I'm going to be wearing clothes like these.

Now, I don't want you thinking that I'm obsessed with appearance. I'm not. I just know when I look good, and I know when I don't. And if I know I don't, I'm not just going to let myself look bad. So, in the interest of self-preservation, I've mastered a few clothes-altering charms. Nothing major, just a hem-shortening spell and a size-reduction charm. And I learned a few things about sewing from my mom.

Ouch. Painful train of thought. Moving on.

After a few minutes of trial and error, I feel moderately satisfied with my uniform. I shorten the hem of the skirt considerably—it now stops about midthigh—and I shrink the shirt and stuff to appear more tailored. I also lower the neck on the sweater and vest, so that I can actually undo a few buttons. Not that I'm a skank or anything. I just value air and the ability to breathe. There's nothing I can do about the shoes, so I chuck them, and pull out my black and white Converse. I love Converse. If it were possible to make love to a shoe, this would be the one.

Don't judge me, dammit!

When I finish, I realize I still have a few hours until the "Welcome Feast" (My God, it sounds like some kind of forced mating ritual), so I pull out a book and start reading. I barely make it through one chapter before I doze off (jet lag), waking to the sound of loud voices and laughter. I guess it's time. I reluctantly put on those dreadful robes, adding a few non-magical touches—a necklace, some hoop earrings, a black camisole under the shirt—before calling good enough, and heading downstairs.

The Great Hall, which is basically the cafeteria, is completely packed with students, all dressed in the same ugly clothes. I pause in the doorway, feeling momentarily uncertain; no one else seems to have bothered to alter the uniform. Maybe it has something to do with British prudery? Whatever it is, I know I'm going to stand out with my tiny skirt and unbuttoned shirt. They'll probably call me "Yankee Slut," or maybe "Tacky American."

Well, let them. Let them think I'm the Whore of Babylon. I really don't give a damn.

Taking a deep, confident, I step into the Great Hall.

The effect is instantaneous; first, it goes silent for about two seconds, then the whispers start, echoing in the vast hall. "Who is she?" they wonder as I walk by.

But none of them have called me a whore yet.

Out of nowhere, a boy with messy black hair, brown eyes, and Gryffindor robes gets up from the table to my right, smirking. He runs a hand through that hair, leans slightly toward me (he smells like aftershave), and purrs, "Hello, love."

I hate this guy already.

"Hi," I mutter disinterestedly, and attempt to keep walking, but he steps into my path, still smirking. Oh, goody, we've got a live one.

"You're new here, aren't you?" he asks. Before I can respond with the totally called for "Duh," he keeps going. "You must be. I know I'd remember a face so beautiful."

Gag me with a spoon.

I roll my eyes, and try again to avoid this obviously self-absorbed douche bag, but he repeats his earlier action and blocks my way. I sigh in exasperation, looking up at him and folding my arms. "All right, buddy, what do you want?"

One eyebrow quirks upward. "You're American."

"Well spotted," I deadpan.

His eyes take on a sickening gleam as he leans toward me. "Perhaps you'd like to meet me later, and I'll give you a taste of... _English hospitality_."

He's got quite a pair, this guy.

"Listen here, Sparky," I snarl, and at last, that smirk of his fades. "I know your kind. Self-obsessed, arrogant little playboys, living off of Daddy's paycheck, thinking you can sweet talk your way into any girl's pants. Well, guess what?" I lean in, my voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "I'm not falling for it. I have no interest in you, your stupid hair, or your obnoxious little smirk, so just step aside, Skippy."

Damn, that felt good.

Of course, the whole school has been listening intently to this exchange, so once it's over, the murmurs begin again. This time, I _do_ here the anticipated insults. The boy gawks at me for several seconds before scowling, and stomping back to his seat. I roll my eyes, continuing on my way.

I spot one girl at the Gryffindor table who appears to be fighting laughter. Her fire-red curls bounce as she giggles.

"Something funny?" I snap at her.

She looks up at me, her blue eyes gleaming with mirth. "I have _never_ seen a girl stand up to James and call him out for what he is," she says. "Really, you deserve a standing ovation for that."

I lift an eyebrow. "I assume that James is the ass wipe I just shot down?"

"The one and only," she nods.

Fascinated and amused, I sit down across from her. "So, tell me. How is it that you can resist his 'charms,' when no one else seems to be able to?"

"I'm his cousin," she states.

"Ah," I grin. "That explains it. I'm Lexi, by the way."

"I'm Rose," she offers a hand, and I shake it just before she adds, "Rose Weasley."

My eyes widen. "Weasley?" I repeat. She nods, and I turn my gaze toward the spot where the recently labeled James is now brooding. "So that would make him—"

"James Potter," she finishes. "The second."

"I see. No wonder he's so allegedly irresistible. He's got cash."

"And he's a honey-tongued devil," Rose adds.

I snicker at her comment. "Eloquent. I give you points for that one."

"I've known James all my life," she says tiredly. "I've seen him at his best, and at his absolute worst."

"Is there worse than this?" I ask in mock incredulity. "My God, you poor thing."

She grins. "Yes, there's worse. _Far_ worse. But there's also better."

I give an unfeminine snort. "I'll believe it when I see it."

Just then, another redhead zooms up to us, stopping behind me. She looks a bit like Rose, but with brown eyes and more girlish features. She's probably about fourteen.

"Rosie, is it true?" she squeaks. "I hear some bird gave James a thrashing just a few minutes ago!"

"Yes, it's true," Rose smirks, "and she's sitting right here."

The girl looks at me and squeals, giving me a long, air-constricting hug. "What—the—hell?" I wheeze.

Rose laughs. "Sorry. Lexi, this is Lily, my cousin and James's younger sister."

Lily releases me at last. "You're amazing, you know that?"

"As a matter of fact, I did know that," I smirk, and she giggles. "Thanks for the reminder, though."

"Merlin, you've got pretty eyes," she says out of nowhere.

"Um... thank you?"

"Rose, doesn't she have amazing eyes?" She looks back at me, squinting to get a better look at them. "That light, bluish-green... it's absolutely gorgeous!"

"Lily, calm down," Rose scolds her, "before word gets back to Aunt Ginny that you've got Lesbian tendencies."

"I do not! I've snogged more boys than you've read books!"

"Should I tell Aunt Ginny that, too?"

Lily's face glowed scarlet. "Snitch."

"Menace."

"Suck-up."

"Damn," I mumble. "It's like watching the Williams sisters."

They turn to me with identical frowns. "Who?"

Oh, right. All-magic families. "Never mind," I shake my head.

A moment later, McGonagall stands up and addresses us. I don't pay too much attention to what she has to say, since it all just kind of sounds like, "Blah, blah, blah" to me. The only thing that registers in my brain is that there's going to be a ball the Saturday before Christmas.

A ball. Meaning, a dance.

How holly jolly.

"I just can't wait for the ball!" Lily giggles.

"Lily, there's no guaranteeing you'll even be going," Rose reminds her. "It's for fifth year and above. The only way you'd be allowed in is if a fifth year asks you to go."

"Then I'll just have to start flirting with more fifth year boys, won't I?" She gives a smug grin, then bounces up from her seat. "It was nice to meet you, Lexi. You're my new hero. Keep up the good work!"

"If by 'the good work' you mean putting your brother in his place, then _gladly_."

With one last giggle, she skips away. I watch her go, then turn to look at Rose, one eyebrow raised. "She's... spirited."

"She's caffeinated," Rose corrects, and we laugh for a full five minutes.

After dinner, Rose and I walk up to Gryffindor tower together. I'm disappointed to find that she's a year behind me, and therefore won't be in my dormitory, or in any of my classes. But I tell myself that I'll only be in the dorm when it's time to go to sleep, and classes are for learning, not chatting with friends, so it won't really matter too much. Even so, it's nice to have a real friend.

Well... one that doesn't have feathers.

Speaking of whom, when I get to the dormitory—where I receive two icy glares and a few indifferent glances from the other girls—I let Athena out of her cage and take her to the open window. I watch her fly away, feeling a bittersweet acceptance. This place isn't exactly what I'd call homey, but I'm here to stay, so I might as well take it for what it is. With a resigned sigh, I climb into bed, wondering what changes these next several months will bring for me.

* * *

><p>AN: You have absolutely no idea how hard it was to write about _not_ liking Hogwarts, since if I were to be given the chance to live in any world, whether in existence or in books alone, I would pick Hogwarts. I hope I did a good job. And again, no frame of reference. I'm entirely too happy an individual. It gets me into trouble sometimes. Ah, well. Please leave a review!


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